was deceived by a sophistical prettiness of her face, which waned before a more judicious scrutiny. Her look was bold and reckless, and, upon her countenance, where yet the contours of youth survived, were the finger marks of old age’s credentialled courier, Late Hours.
The young woman fixed her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called to him in the voice of the wronged heroine in straits.
“Say! you look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail, won’t you? I’ve done nothing to get pinched for. It’s all a mistake. See how they’re treating me! You won’t be sorry, if you’ll help me out of this. Think of your sister or your girl dragged along the streets this way! I say, come along, now, Charlie.”
It may be that Lorison, in spite of the unconvincing pathos of this appeal, showed a sympathetic face, for one of the officers left the woman’s side and went over to him.
